


Warmth

by WackyGoofball



Series: Tumblr Medley [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, F/M, Memories, Pillow Kisses, lazy mornings in bed, well - kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6932551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WackyGoofball/pseuds/WackyGoofball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the Tumblr prompt: "Jaime kisses his pillow at night, pretending it's Brienne". </p><p>Here's my take on it, thanks to the anon who's given this jewel to me - I hope what became of it is worthy of your request ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justme (silver_spring)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_spring/gifts).



> Hello everyone, thanks for looking into this oneshot!
> 
> Thanks to anon another time!
> 
> I am still no native!
> 
> Not beta'd. 
> 
> Just tossing in some JB love! 
> 
> I gift this to justme (silver_spring) because of sheer amazingness and delightful edits, manips, and spoofing of Westeros in the JB forum, as well as ever the more delightful discussions while chatting. ;)

 

The bed holds no warmth, no matter how many blankets or pillows he tries to bury himself in. He feels cold, cold, cold.  
  
Jaime pulls one of the pillows closer to his face, feeling the rough yet somehow smooth texture of the fabric against his own skin, which is no longer as silky as it used to be before he was sent on the journey that set forth something within him that he could not pinpoint to this very day - or night. Rough and callused and scarred. Not golden, not flawless. 

And in that sense, way closer to what he actually is – flawed, grey, rough around the edges.

A quiver rises in his chest as another shiver of the cold sweeps through him.

The only source of warmth turns out to be his hot, moist breath dampening the pillow as his lips brushed over the surface in search of any sort of heat.

Jaime closes his eyes, tries to focus on the memories long since blurred out by everything that followed over the years, of Casterly Rock and a long summer, of the buzzing of flies and bees, the smell of dry grass and dust, the cooling sensation of sweat against his tunic as he had played outside. Yet, the images remain all blurry by the edges, when there used to be a time he could call them to mind in every detail. And the heat they radiates is not enough to hush the shivers out of him.

So much to that.

Jaime finds his mind drifting to other possible sources of heat, of warmth, to somehow ease him back to slumber and ease, but the moments are too blurry to radiate enough heat to warm him, or so it appears.

As he is about to give up and just suffer through the cold, crystal clear images sweep his senses at once.

A moment by dawn, some time ago, a not so distant memory, not blurred out by the edges. A moment as the first beams of sunlight had crept through the small window of that shabby inn, bathing his body in the heat a Southerner seems to need by virtue of his birth.  

But the greatest warmth had come from her, as they lay entangled, asleep and half-asleep, cherishing a moment without the need of words, a moment without the need of anything but themselves.

Her heart beating in her flat chest, pressed against his, a steady rhythm, too soothing for words to describe or capture.

Her big hands warm, the way they have always been.

Back then, Jaime hoped that this moment would simply last a lifetime. That they would sleep through all the terrors of the Winter approaching with fast strides, of all that lay behind them and in front of them.

He can still remember how he wanted to soak the warmth out of that situation, out of that moment, how he wished that the tranquility of the moment meant more than what it did among them.

Solace.

Comfort.

Warmth.

The constant reassurance of no longer being alone in this world.

No longer two stars short before falling, into oblivion, but somehow holding each other up in the night’s sky.

Keeping each other alive.

One should think that the woman would be rough in her touches – since she most definitely _is_ once they leave the room and go on with their quest to the North, to put their two meager swords and whatever spirit has remained in a battle no one knows the outcome of yet. But she was and is surprisingly gentle, though then again, Jaime had to call to mind the bath back in Harrenhal, and how her touches had felt to him back then already.

He should have known, upon reflection.

One should think that after all they have been through thus far, they know each other inside-out, and while Jaime may now pride himself of having dissevered some certain aspects of the woman she’s never shared with anyone but him, she still tends to surprise him. Just like he keeps surprising himself while in her presence. If there is anything to it that people change for the people they want to change for, then perhaps that is the reason why.

Jaime doesn’t question, though.

He dares to take this for a small fortune – if he is deserving of it stands on another page, or so he reckons – and not destroy it by poking holes at it with questions about why and how.

Instead, he soaks up those small moments of nothing but warmth and comfort like a sponge, saves them up for the Long Night, saves them up for when they will have to unsheathe their swords and there is no longer any sure telling if they will see each other again in the chamber to give each other warm and the reassurance of not being alone in this bloody, bloody world.

And so he bathes in the warmth of that not so distant memory of when they had just laid there, chest to chest, heart to heart, and forgot the world with all its terrors, sought warmth and comfort in each other’s arms, forgetting about the mold of the walls or the fact that he can only offer one real hand to hold on, in general, all scars were just forgotten, and Jaime bathes in the bliss of that moment to somehow make him forget about the cold of the night he is actually trying to sleep through.

Jaime is suddenly pulled out of the peach-shaded memory of a dawn that meant nothing but comfortable – and much needed – warmth, back to the cold, rotten chamber in yet another shabby inn. He pries his eyes open slowly to see a familiar tall frame coming through the old wooden door. And it is only during that moment that he catches his body in the act of doing what he did during that moment by dawn – the kiss he pressed to her lips, just that it is the pillow he has brushed his lips against.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rouse you.”

Jaime straightens up a bit, chuckling softly. If Brienne noticed anything, she is gracious enough not to mention it. She didn’t always use such a small, hushed voice on him, or let alone apologize for such things.

But Jaime will be the last one to complain.

“I am a light sleeper anyways.” He shrugs. “Did anything happen while you were out?”

“I just saw about the horses,” she replies.

“I know that,” he snorts. “It’s just beyond me that you have to do that while the _moon’s_ still visible.”

Brienne shrugs her broad shoulders as she walks over to the bed to sit down on the edge to take off her heavy coat and mud-caked boots, full of moist from the fog still hanging below the canopy.

“We want to ride out today, don’t you remember? I was just making sure we could leave right after we have eaten something. We still have a long way ahead of us.”

“I do remember, I just try to forget it,” he sighs. “I still think we’d fare better trying to waste _quite_ some time before getting there. By chance, the battle will be over before we get there.”

“You are not sincere, are you?” she looks at him with her way too blue eyes.

“If you had said to me that you’d want to run away, I would have been much more enthusiastic.”

“... I never meant to force you. I thought I had...,” Brienne means to say, but Jaime is quick enough to interrupt herm, “You made that clear well enough, woman. I just don’t see the point in rushing there. The war doesn’t run away from us. That is the nature of wars, that you can’t escape them. Wars are not frightened of a one-handed man and a woman in armor.”

“We have spent two days here already,” Brienne argues. “Though we could have been on our way long since.”

Brienne lets out a small squeal of surprise as she finds herself pulled back by her arm so her upper body falls back on the bed, right into Jaime’s lap. Before she can protest, his lips are on hers, needing her warmth, cherishing the small fight she always puts up, humming against her chapped, broad lips.

By the Seven, he can’t kiss a pillow without getting something real to cover up for it, can he?

“What was that for?” Brienne asks, wrinkling her nose, a faint blush creeping up her thick neck and freckled cheeks.

Jaime lets out a throaty laugh. Only Brienne asks such questions.

“Just taking a moment for us,” he tells her in an easy voice.

“We have a mission.”

“You think I don’t know that? For that, you ponder on it too often and too stubbornly,” Jaime huffs, rolling his emerald eyes at her.

“I just...,” she stammers helplessly. And Jaime would usually take a lot more pleasure in teasing her about her struggle, but he doesn’t feel like it.

“You just _what_?”

Well, _not as much_.

“I remind myself...”

“What now?” Jaime makes a face, noting the sincere tone in her voice.

“... I keep having dreams, about running away from all this,” Brienne says, her voice no more than a whisper.

“I am _shocked_ , my lady,” Jaime says with feigned horror. She pushes against his arm lightly.

“Don’t you mock me!” she pouts.

“We can do that if you want to... but wait, I know the answer already, ‘we have a mission’. And since we are bound to go through this together... well, so it seems that we are to fulfill that mission. Running away is no behavior proper for a knight, even less for one as righteous as you.”

He lets out a weary sigh. They keep having similar discussions about the matter, moments of doubt and reassurance, swaying back and forth, and however selfish it may be, Jaime found himself hoping that Brienne would agree to just make a run for it.

More than once.

Curiously so, he finds himself saying these kinds of things to prevent her from abandoning their mission the same way she does again and again.

Jaime has to try hard not to shiver at the thought, which comes with cold.

Aren’t they signing their death sentence over and over?

“I am no knight.”

“In spirits, you are, so what does it matter? If I believed in titles all too much, I would have to take a lot more offense in people still calling me Kingslayer.”

“Do you think we are doing the right thing?”

“It seems to be inherent part of your nature to do the right thing, with a good amount of pig-headed stubbornness, I must add.”

“I wished we had more time.”

“Well, best we can do is to use the time we have… and make sure not to die to milk some more moments for us out of that greedy witch of time,” Jaime replies with a weary smile, but before he can add something more, he finds warmth against his lips.

Brienne is still usually not the one to initiate gestures of affection – though she is _responsive_ , but Jaime knows that it means a great deal of negotiation for her to openly express, to dare to kiss first.

“Now, what was _that_ for?” he grins smugly once she pulls away, and he can feel the heat of her blush rising into the otherwise cold air.

Brienne shrugs her broad shoulders.

She is still no woman of great words. While she gains more and more confidence in talking to him openly, he has all understanding in the world that she struggles. He himself is hardly any better. Talking about matters of the heart, after years of locking them up inside this meager, tiny place of where the heart resides, of making thoughts and feelings go dead and perish in that space, just grew to be so difficult that it takes time to unleash one’s tongue to say what lies within.

“I suppose I should have expected that,” he chuckles softly. “Well, if it makes you happy – and stops you from lamenting all day long, we may ride out today all the same.”

Jaime doesn’t know what impulse made him move, but eventually he pulls her tall frame to himself. Brienne lets out another small shriek, but then lies with him on the bed, still clothed, still damp hair, but still so warm.

“… We may also delay until tomorrow,” he can hear her say.

“What about the mission?”

“… You said we may take some time for ourselves, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, maybe now’s… a good time.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

He presses against her even more, soaks up her warmth, creates fresh memories of warmth and comfort in his mind, to save up for later, to create more moments. And he smiles once he can feel her shift closer to him, her tense muscles slowly easing.

“You are aware that I am still over with horsehair and mud?”

“Doesn’t matter. You are warm. And this place lacks good heating.”

“I can add more logs to the fire?”

“Or you can just let me catch up with my sleep because you leaving in the midst of the night had me wide awake because there was no one to warm the bed beside me.”

Brienne says nothing – and he is grateful for it.

“Or… we can heat things up, obviously.”

“JAIME!”

“What? A man has needs.”

“A man has needs indeed, if he is kissing a pillow.”

“I was _dreaming_.”

Of her.

Always her these days.

He kisses her before she can retort something in return, and perhaps the sweetest sound is that small laugh she now allows herself to let loose every once in a while, girlish almost, but truly sweet to the ear.

 And so they just lay there, creating small, hushed moments embedded in the warmth of comfort, reassuring each other of the fact that they won’t leave each other.

That they need each other.

That they have each other.

The North doesn’t run away after all.

And stealing something from a thief, for time is a thief, should be allowed every once in a while.


End file.
